Dead Man’s Switch

by Tammy Kaehler

  “Wade…was Wade blackmailing you?”

  “Not yet. He was toying with me. I’m glad that piece of shite is dead, but I didn’t kill him over it—I can prove that. I made peace long ago with the idea that if this comes out, I’ll deal with it. I’d just prefer it didn’t.”

  I nodded. Shook my head. Babbled. “I’m so sorry, Eddie. I thought—a woman. Wade. I…I swear I will never tell a living soul. And I’m impressed you got past it and became so successful here. For what it’s worth.”

  “Just keep quiet. I’m going back to work.” He was abrupt in tone and manner, dropping my arm and striding back to his pit box.

  I scurried back to my team, acutely shamed. I’d known that asking questions might turn up answers I didn’t want to hear. But I expected to feel virtuous about uncovering the truth. Instead I’d forced Eddie to share his personal demons with me. For no good reason. I felt an inch tall.

  I looked for our car on the monitors, and with effort, tried to remember what I was thinking about before I’d gone running to bother Eddie. Detective Jolley. Jack’s car. Mike on video. I was done snooping. Over it. I wanted to dump what I knew on Jolley and abdicate all responsibility. But there was no good reason for leaving the pit. My job as a driver was to stay with the team, in case I was needed for some reason—I wasn’t likely to be put back in the car, but anything was possible. Jack would have my head if I went more than a few pit spaces away.

  I was watching the monitors for Mike’s progress, checking the time remaining in the race, and swiveling around to look for Jolley in the paddock, when Marcus appeared next to me.

  He gave me a big, warm smile and mouthed the word “Hello.”

  I smiled back and waved a hand.

  He leaned in close to my ear, and I pulled back that side of the radio headset I wore. For heaven’s sake, he even smelled delicious, too. “Great stint, Kate.” He rested his hand on my shoulder. “Really, really great move you made.”

  I pulled back and smiled wider. “Thank you,” I said, knowing he’d only see and not hear.

  He leaned close again. “Did it just happen, or were you planning that move?”

  “I was planning it for a long time.”

  He looked impressed. “But how on earth did you do that? I’d really like to understand.”

  I was more interested in watching our car or finding Detective Jolley than explaining, but I played nice. “Mostly I knew Duncan wouldn’t expect it from me—it’s something I can’t do again. I thought, if I could just find the right combination of a big turn like that one or Big Bend and a slower car that Duncan would reach just at the end of the turn, he might underestimate me enough to leave me the opening. I made sure I was there on his right before he had a chance to move.” I was breathing hard by the end, from the shouting it took to communicate over the race noise, through someone else’s earplugs, and on my tiptoes to reach his ear.

  He straightened, his head cocked to the side, eyes narrowed, lost in thought. “You’re planning that far down the track? You’re thinking up situations and waiting for the other cars to fill them?”

  “Yes, I’m thinking about how every car I come across might move. Don’t you?”

  “The ones next to me, yes, but all of them?”

  “All of them.”

  “I understand. Thank you very much.”

  “Anytime.” I was still flush with the pride of driving well, as well as helping Marcus understand what I’d done.

  “I would be very grateful for a bit of your time and some advice. Maybe some pointers. Would you be willing to share some of that with me?”

  Under the influence of my racing high and the weird brand of intimacy created by admitting someone into your personal space enough to communicate in the pits, I agreed. “Sure. I’ll tell you what I can.”

  Marcus beamed. Then he leaned down and kissed my cheek, tracing my jawline with his finger as he pulled away. “Thank you, Kate. I know I’ll be able to learn a tremendous amount from you—you’re such a talented driver.”

  I looked up at him, dazed. For ten seconds, I felt mushy and girly—once I remembered my name. Then I got a grip on myself and looked around to see who’d noticed. No one, thank God. Marcus might make me tingly, but if there was a place for that kind of sensation, the pits during a race wasn’t it.

  Voices came over the radio, and I turned away from Marcus to listen.

  “Yellow out for debris from that Porsche, Mike,” Bruce said. Paying attention to the monitors again, I saw a Porsche with a blown tire limping back to the pits, scattering rubber from West Bend to Pit In.

  Bruce went on. “Shouldn’t be a long one. P1 and P2 in class, the 63 Corvette and the Saleen, went up a lap here. But the Saleen has to come in for some fuel, and you don’t.”

  “I don’t? And where’s P4?”

  “P4 in class, 64 Corvette, thirteen seconds behind you. They’ll be closer now, but may also need a splash. We think you’re going to be OK on fuel, so you’re staying out and going for it. It’ll be close, but we’ll see what happens.”

  “You think we’re OK?”

  Bruce laughed. “I think we’ll be OK. Our engineer says it’s close, but he’s positive. The more caution laps we get now, running at slow speed, the better. Do what you can to short shift, coast, and save us some more.”

  “OK, boss, we’re going for it!”

  I smiled, appreciating Bruce and Mike. Then the weight of what I knew about Mike crashed onto me again, and I felt my shoulders slump.

  Marcus tapped me on the arm, and I followed his pointing finger down the pits to see a flurry of motion. For at least thirty seconds, the cars on the track might not have existed, for all the attention the people in the pits paid them. Instead, everyone was transfixed at the sight of a driver being escorted out of the pits in handcuffs. It was Jim Siddons, furiously kicking any tire, hose, or piece of trash he got near. Stuart followed Jim and two police officers, who each held one of Jim’s arms. I watched, open-mouthed, with everyone else. The buzz of explanation made its way to us.

  “Jim Siddons and a guy from Delray—sabotage! That’s what the problems were. And Jim took a swing at one of the cops!” One of the crew from the next pit box over shouted the bones of the story to Jack and our team.

  Stuart saw me watching and headed my direction instead of following Jim and the officers out of the pits. I met him partway.

  “We caught them, Kate. Jim and Trent and a camera guy for SPEED.”

  “But did they kill Wade?”

  “Still not positive, but I don’t think so. Trent told us that Wade was blackmailing them into sabotaging cars he chose.”

  “But, Stuart, they had to have killed Wade. If they didn’t, then who?” I reached out to steady myself on the chain-link fence. I didn’t like the answers staring me in the face. I wanted Stuart to give me a name that wasn’t Jack or Mike.

  He frowned and shook his head. “I’ll let you know what we find out.”

  I returned to my spot in front of our team monitors, shrugging at Marcus and others who wanted more information. I tried to concentrate on cars, not killers, but I was shaky. The pace car brought the field around, and the cars opting to pit streamed in. Sure enough, the Saleen came in for fuel and tires. Bruce relayed that information to Mike, and we all perked up. The Saleen would be faster on fresh rubber, but Mike would get around them by not pitting, and he might have enough left in his tires to hold them off until the end of the race. Racing strategy was always a gamble—that’s what made it fun.

  Mike was six cars ahead of the Saleen when the field got the signal for one lap to go. We were all preparing for the fight he’d have on his hands. When we went back to green, we’d have just twenty minutes of racing left. Hectic ones.

  I was listening to Bruce give Mike a pep talk when I noticed the screen
showing the live SPEED Channel feed was presenting a photo and video montage of Wade’s career. We couldn’t hear the sound, but we got the idea: lists of his accomplishments, wins, and championships with photos of him looking racy, tough, and happy. The photo they ended with was Wade and the whole Sandham Swift team, three years ago, when Mike started with them. In contrast to my experiences with Wade, he lit up the screen, smiling and drawing the eye of others in the shot with him. He looked full of life, laughing at the world and daring it to interfere with his plans.

  Jack and Mike were in the photo, too, watching Wade. I was staggered by the poignancy of that shot. Wade in his element, at the center of everything. Jack and Mike. What was I going to do?

  Chapter Fifty

  Movement in my peripheral vision pulled me out of my morose thoughts. I turned to find Marcus also watching the SPEED Channel feed with the most extraordinary expression on his face. Anger. Beyond that. Rage.

  Marcus saw me watching him and, after a blank moment of surprise, he unclenched. He leaned forward and put his hand on my shoulder again. I moved the headset off one ear to hear him. “Kate, I am so upset.”

  “Angry?”

  “Yes. Angry at the loss of such a wonderful man. Devastated at the loss of my friend and mentor.”

  That made sense. “He was a very talented driver.”

  Marcus nodded, and his fingers tightened on my shoulder. “He was helping me so much, guiding me. I hoped to be of use to him, too….” The field thundered past, and the green flew.

  I looked at Marcus, raising my eyebrows. I darted a glance to the monitors—damn it, what was happening with Mike? I searched for our car as Marcus put his lips near my ear and spoke again. “Contacts, networking, sponsorships, that sort of thing. I’ve put him in touch with some interesting people.”

  There was Mike. The Saleen had caught up! It was right behind him, trying to make a move, but Mike made a great block down the Back Straight and into West Bend.

  Marcus was still talking. “Wade always spoke of us—him and me, that is—being able to drive together someday. He was working with me, helping me improve my driving, and we were getting close.”

  Mike swept down the front straight, and what Marcus said registered. I turned to him. “That’s great. Where were you going to race together?”

  “If I worked hard enough—which I’ve been doing—possibly driving the Corvette here.”

  I forgot about Mike and the Saleen in my surprise. “Great. As a third driver sometime?” I wasn’t sure his abilities were up to the task.

  “Perhaps.”

  I pulled away to see him smiling. “What about Mike?”

  “From what I understand, they weren’t getting along too well.”

  “I didn’t know,” I lied.

  “They’d even come to blows recently. In fact, I’m surprised the police haven’t questioned him.” I detected an undertone of malice in his voice—anger on his former hero’s behalf?—which wasn’t easy to do, since we were still yelling through earplugs and headsets.

  I hadn’t responded, and Marcus went on. “I’d be happy to introduce you to some of the contacts I have who are looking for good sponsorship opportunities—they’d be extremely interested to meet you. Perhaps there’d be an opportunity in the future for you and me to drive together. I think Wade would have wanted that.”

  That was creepy. I gave him a half-hearted smile and a small nod. “We’ll see what happens. Thanks.” I pressed a hand to my radio headset and pasted an intent look on my face, as if I was hearing a transmission. I needed a break from Mr. Intensity.

  Marcus waved a hand and headed down pit lane. I found Mike on the monitors and lived through a few corners with him as he bobbed, weaved, and passed other cars, staying in front of the Saleen. Go Mike! Oh, Mike. I kept forgetting…maybe because my image of the big, shaggy, teddy bear of a guy was hard to reconcile with the idea of a killer.

  Aunt Tee walked around the corner of the pit box and held up a bottle of water, asking if I wanted it. I shook my head. Then I went after her and spoke next to her ear. “Aunt Tee, do you know if Mike rented a silver Taurus this weekend?”

  She laughed. “Actually yes, we joked about it the other day because it had a Georgia plate, and he’s from Georgia.”

  He’d been the first to leave. Before Jack and before the other Taurus. “And does he lose his temper much? Does he ever get violent?”

  She started shaking her head before I got the words out. “No, Kate. I can’t say never, because I’ve seen it once or twice. But he’s the last one to lose his temper—everyone else will go bananas before Mike will. He’ll only lose it if pressed well beyond the limits of anyone’s endurance—only during a race, when his blood’s up. I’ve never seen him turn a hair during a practice or qualifying. And never to anyone on the team—with the exception of Wade, and only to him once. After that, Mike told me he knew he had to hold his temper and defer to Wade, that he’d always have to, but it wasn’t too hard.”

  This painted a different picture. “Did he and Wade ever come to blows?”

  “Never.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I returned to the pit walkway and the monitors. Mike was still holding on, outrunning and blocking the Saleen for all he was worth. A thrill fluttered through me, electrifying me—we might take second!

  I stomped on the idea. Anything and everything could happen in the last ten minutes, five minutes, or thirty seconds. I’d seen leading cars break in the last two minutes of a twenty-four-hour race. Nothing was over in a race until your car took the checkered flag.

  Think about what Aunt Tee had said. They’d never fought, ever. I knew they’d fought the night Wade died—that was on the SPEED Channel’s video—but Aunt Tee wouldn’t know it. I froze. How did Marcus know? Did Marcus have an in with SPEED Channel, like I did? Did Mike tell him? Did Wade tell him?

  My stomach dropped to the vicinity of my feet. Or was he there?

  My Nomex shirt was dry, and I was standing in the sun, but I shivered violently. Did Marcus know they’d come to blows because he’d witnessed it? I started to rearrange facts, ideas, suppositions, and wild guesses.

  Marcus had his father’s car Friday night. He said he’d gone to the China Inn Restaurant, but no one had seen him—at least not until later that night at The Boathouse. Not much of an alibi. But motive? Aunt Tee disapproved of him and thought him spoiled. Andy thought he was unstable. I couldn’t think straight around him. No one else I’d talked to really knew him.

  And there was that look of rage in response to the on-screen tribute. Plus the rumor Holly had heard about trouble in his relationship with Wade. Which finally prompted a more fundamental question: Why would Wade exert himself to be a mentor to anyone? It was easier to believe there’d been trouble between them than harmony.

  I ran out of time to compose my face before I saw Marcus walking back toward me along the pits. He was watching me and smiling, shoulders back, head up, exuding confidence. Arrogance, maybe? I stared at him, feeling the underlying menace I hadn’t recognized before.

  Chapter Fifty-one

  My face must have betrayed my thoughts as I sorted through my suspicions, because as far away as he was, Marcus’ stride faltered. I was still numb with shock. I couldn’t believe it. If he’d walked toward me with a puzzled and calm expression, it might have all blown over. But he didn’t.

  Instead, his jaw tightened, and he looked angry. Murderous, even. My suspicions coalesced at that moment into certainty. He walked toward me faster—no more amiable, sauntering stride, but a determined stalking.

  I came alive with a start. This was a murderer? Not Jim, not Trent—not someone already safely in custody? The voice inside me couldn’t help asking. One more look at him. Yes. This was a murderer four pit stalls away from me. One
who knows I recognize who and what he is. I swallowed. I needed the cops, pronto.

  I fixed a fake smile on my face and waved at him. I set down my headset and radio, mouthed “bathroom” to Aunt Tee, and headed for the exit at a jog—away from Marcus and toward the Series trailer in the paddock where I knew I could find the police. I kept telling myself Marcus wouldn’t do anything to me in front of everyone at the race.

  I exited the pits and discovered the monumental error I’d made. At this point in the race, the paddock wasn’t bustling with life. It was mostly dismantled. In heading for the Series and police, I was taking myself away from all the people. I glanced back: Marcus was closer, jogging. Worse, he was only twenty feet away, and he’d gotten between me and people in the pits, so I couldn’t change course. He’d also shed his pretty-boy expression and looked pissed-off and crazy. My heart leapt into my throat, and I started running.

  That’s when my plan fell apart. More correctly, when I fell over some cables on the ground and went down on one knee and two palms. Scrambling, feeling the future bruise on my kneecap and the fresh, gritty scrapes on my palms. I staggered to my feet and took another step, only to be snapped back. Marcus had grabbed one of the trailing arms of my firesuit, and he was reeling me in. I shouted. I yelled my head off, knowing no one would hear me. Still, I screamed in desperation, panic, and bone-deep fear. I didn’t know what Marcus might do—looking back, I still don’t know what he had in mind. But I didn’t want any part of it.

  I made life as difficult as possible for him. Through a roaring in my head, I wriggled, twisted, bucked, flailed, and kicked. I moved everything on my body that could possibly move to make it hard for him to get a grip on me. I wasn’t going to go quietly or easily. I knew it was the end of the race, but where was a nosy ALMS official when I needed one? Anyone to come to my rescue? No one. They were all focused on the track.

  Despite my movements, Marcus hooked an arm around my waist. I got more frantic. I snapped my head back and to the left, in the direction of his head, hoping for a good head butt, which didn’t do anything but make me dizzy. Kick, Kate. Between the legs, dammit! Fight dirty. I tried to heave and kick to get him in the groin, but I was short enough and he was tall enough that I couldn’t lift my feet or knees that far. I kept twisting and waving my right arm as high as possible to keep him from grabbing it and maybe land a lucky blow to the head. A fist, Kate! Swing for the crotch!